Of liquor and Loose Women
by evilredmenace
Summary: Just a brief Leon and Claire bar scene. Pre RE4. Might briefly consider a choose your own adventure. Second Chapter: A Conquest of Sorts. But by who? Mild citrus.
1. Tequila and Sexual Tension

He didn't know who had started it. Yes, it had been the end of a long week of drudgery at his training facility, and Claire and faithfully completed her third year of school… that alone warranted celebration of some kind.

He could now count the number of new things he learned about Claire Redfield this evening.

Despite most protests at hating "girlie" movies and ridiculous, contrived romance, she had a soft spot for the movie "Ever After." She also admitted to a small crush on Bill Clinton.

She could put away enough tequila to shame a frat boy. What had initially started off as a laid back evening at a small, secluded pub, had escaladed into a night of post tipsy, drunken debauchery.

And he wasn't sure if he wanted to put an end to it.

Certainly, he had matched her shot for shot. He was no lightweight himself, but he had more of a pension for Portland's microbrews. And yet, when he had walked with her to this trendy yet lax establishment, he had expected nothing more than a drink and some conversation.

On the fourth shot, he could feel the heat on his face, and the tequila warming his insides, settling almost comfortably into his stomach. The girl in front of him licked the remainder of the salt off her hand, knocking the empty shot glass on top of the previous three.

"So what about you? What was your 'guilty pleasure' movie?" He was suddenly fascinated by the inordinate amount of freckles peppering her nose. Did she always have so many?

"HEY, you don't have to feel inhibited, Sir Kennedy. I won't let any of your fellow comrades in on your little secret. Come on… is it 'Mean Girls?'" Her words were not slurred, though they seemed to emphasize syllables a great deal more than normal.

"I like all sorts of terrible, ridiculous movies. Movies that never should have been green lighted, really. 'Mean Girls' was okay, but 'Road House' is one of those that needs to be seen in order to get the full sleazy experience." He smiled, remembering how he still had a battered VHS copy floating around somewhere.

"Wait, is that the one with that guy from 'Platoon?'"

"Which one? Wait, no… I don't think so. That movie was too credible to have Patrick Swayze in it."

"Patrick effen' Swayze? Patrick 'Nobody puts baby in the corner' Swayze?"

"The very same." He gestured to their empty glasses. "Do you want a water or something?"

"Thanks. Then we can move on to vodka!" She ended this statement with a vicious slam of a fist on the table. He chuckled, taking their glasses up to the bar.

She had been half-kidding. Following his retreating body with her more-than-buzzed gaze, she inwardly noted just how incredibly attractive her best friend was. Certainly, a superficial glance at the man who answered to Leon Kennedy would confirm this. He was tall and solid, though not heavily muscled. He wore dark denim and a t-shirt that looked three washes away from total disintegration. So much so, that she couldn't make out the writing on the back. His hair was long and streaked with gold… she didn't know if it had come about naturally or by chemical means.

He also didn't proactively talk about the relentless training he was going through. Generic descriptions, and occasional jokes at the expense of his colleagues were about as much as she got from him. Which was fine, she had mused. Hell, most of his job requirements would require the strictest secrecy.

But it was also interesting to see where their lives had taken them. Leon had chosen a career path that involved more bureaucratic jurisdiction. She was currently majoring in criminology after a brief dabbling in both pre-med and philosophy. After Chris and Jill had married, she had moved to a small studio near campus. She liked to emphasize that she hadn't been kicked out or even ill at ease at her brother's new marriage, but she simply needed her own space. Especially if she wanted to graduate in another year.

She was suddenly very glad to remember that she had cleaned the apartment that afternoon. If, by chance, Leon wanted to stop over afterwards, she wanted to make sure that…

What? That there was plenty of space to stage a vigorous sex romp?

She giggled a little, just as he returned with their water.

"What number are you on?" He asked, handing her a glass. It was the familiar rating system that she had come up with when she had first become legal. The basic one to ten scale, rating the level of drunkenness. Now, of course, these numbers varied by the individual. One person's "ten" could be past the realm of rational thought, while another might say that the passing out stage ensured a ten. For Claire, it was between not being able to stand and speaking in tongues.

In this case, she smiled and held up her hand. "I'm definitely in the five range, and I'm sure once that last shot kicks in, I'll be a seven. You?"

"Drivable." That wasn't exactly the truth; he certainly **could** drive, but then he'd probably wrap his poor Taurus around a telephone pole. But she didn't need to know that. After he had a few waters, and by the time he walked her home, he would be in fit form to drive back. The last thing he needed was a night on that cold hardwood floor of hers. When the hell was she going to invest in some goddamn furniture anyway?

He must have said that last part out loud, because she smiled and shrugged. "It's really too small for anything great… I was thinking a couple of those ginormous beanbag chairs, and just calling it good. If you want another round, you could always stay over." She stood up, digging a few crinkly dollar bills out of her purse. "I'll be right back." Sighing, he took another sip of water, wondering why the hell he had agreed to tequila in the first place.

There had been a moment a few weeks ago when he had come close to kissing that girl. The fucked up part of it was, it was in midst of some out of the blue anxiety she had developed… in BLOCKBUSTER no less. What had initially been a rambunctious hunt for "Evil Dead" turned into a mild revival of trauma, stemming from her involuntary jaunt in Antarctica.

He had found her staring blankly at the window, eyes wide, and her hands shaking. He had done the whole jerk off questionnaire; Are you all right? What happened? What did you see? She was so unresponsive that he had to drag her outside as to not alarm customers.

They both sat on the curb, her hands in his lap, and his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. Just as suddenly, she seemed to shake it off, insisting that she was okay, that she was just freaking herself out. By this time, he was biting his tongue in order to keep his patience. Instead, he asked again.

"What did you see?"

"I… I saw a kid who reminded me of Steve Burnside." Leon exhaled sharply, definitely not expecting that. Instead of saying anything, he tried to be as soothing as possible, moving the arm from her shoulders to her back. "It wasn't him… he was too young, but it was enough to shake me up a bit…"

She seemed to be recovering, perhaps self-conscious of having overreacted. But he certainly could relate to being occasionally shaken up by the familiar faces of Raccoon City… When they had initially returned from that whole ordeal, the face and voice of one Ada Wong had seemed permanently etched in his mind. Now, he was struggling with the features of her face, or the timbre of her voice. Christ, he had been so sick with infatuation.

"God, I feel like a tool…" She exhaled slowly.

"What, like a hoe?" She punched him in the meat of his shoulder, smirking at the **terrible** pun. He put his hands up, lifting his eyebrows in feigned innocence.

"It was just… very…odd."

"Uh huh… Redheads usually are…" She looked at him as if he had just recited the serenity prayer in klingon.

"Shut up… that's not what I meant… and besides, you had your fair share of red, buster!"

"Well, what can I say? That phase is long past." He tentatively placed a strand of her disheveled hair behind her ear, seemingly reflective. "Claire, even if that **had** been Steve, how would you have reacted? Would you have been afraid?"

She sighed, shifting her sneakered feet closer in. "No… not afraid. I think I just would have felt…I don't know. Guilty."

"Guilty?" He couldn't hide the incredulous tone from his voice.

"Well, I'd obviously be ecstatic that he was alive and well, and I would have certainly bum-rushed him to get the last four years' worth of information out of him. But, yeah… I would have felt guilty at him SEEING me here, being normal, doing everyday things as if I were unaffected. I don't know, maybe it's residual survivor's guilt or something."

That was when he had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, wrapping his arms over this crazy girl for feeling guilty for having coming out of that insanity alive. She had smelled like artificial peaches and clean laundry.

Which, as he smirked with mild humor, was very much the same, though now mixed with the familiar odor of booze overindulgence and the second hand smoke from the bar. After they had finished that shot, they were taking last calls. That was their cue to slowly meander away, feeling the full brunt of their friend Jose Cuervo upon their bodies.

Claire smiled at him from the crisp, moist pavement outside. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm around his jacketed waist, determined to lead the pace. From what he could tell, the girl was now well lit, though whether she was clutching him for balance or drunken affection was something he could not decipher.

She leaned her head along his shoulder. "Leon, you're so great."

Okay, so now he knew.

He chuckled, gently guiding her away from the distracting water fountains. "Yeah, I know. I'm just one helluva guy." He ran his own arm over her shoulders, reflecting not for the first time on how small the kid was.

Thankfully, they made it back to her place without incident. He congratulated himself on how upstanding and seemingly sober he carried himself, seeing as that he could barely walk in a straight line himself. Claire led the way; luckily, she had had the foresight of acquiring an apartment on the ground level. Any stairwell mishaps could mercifully be avoided.

Flipping through her ridiculous assortment of keys, Claire finally unlocked the door, turning to face him with a smirk.

"This is the part where one is accustomed to being offered 'coffee.' I, however, have no intention of putting forth the effort, seeing as that there isn't a coffeemaker to be had." She leaned against the frame of the door, seemingly unaware of how her hips jutted out becomingly.

This was it. This was invitation enough. He could not pretend to be ignorant of what she was alluding to. His gaze shifted from her stance, to the wide-eyed, almost liquid gaze she was sending his way. He felt a tug from below; her hands had somehow found both sides of his hips, lightly hooking his belt loops.

He couldn't help himself. His hand cradled her face, tracing the hairline and finally running through the thick folds that ended at her shoulders. Sighing deeply, he pressed her forehead against his own, praying to the gods of sexual tension that he could do this.

"Claire, I want to. There isn't a bone in my body that wouldn't leap at the chance to spend the night with you." He leaned back, keeping her face that crucial few inches apart. "But we're not in the most… sober of mindsets. And I can't promise that I'm going to be able to have a relationship with you. After training, they're going to send me packing to god knows where. The last thing I want is to have some sort of residual bitterness between us." She smiled somewhat bitterly, forcing his hips to meet her own.

"And the last thing we need is a whole fuck buddy mentality," she murmured, finally wrapping her arms around him. She was resigned, but still a little disappointed. It wasn't every day that she could converse in an adult manner while somewhat intoxicated.

Releasing her hold on him, she kissed him on the cheek, in true friend-like manner.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he stated, rumbling her hair one final time.

"Fine. You can buy me breakfast."


	2. Conquest

This segment of the story differs DRAMATICALLY from the previous chapter. This includes some mature and vague references to sex. You have been warned.

What If?

She closed the door gently, letting her head rest against the back of the cheap hollow wood. It had been close. Exceedingly, painfully close.

Pressing a hand against her face, Claire felt the flush and sweat that mild intoxication brought. She could smell the smoke on her clothes, and her fallen hair suddenly irritated her. She absently tucked it inside the back of her shirt collar, grateful that it was off of her neck.

She turned to greet the darkness of her empty apartment, suddenly struck by how desolate it seemed. What had passed for bare chic now seemed kind of…sad.

Her biggest moving investment had been the "monstrousity", as Chris had affectionately dubbed it. A four-poster, wooden frame bed with a pillow top mattress. It easily took up a quarter of the apartment space, grudgingly making room for a small desk and lamp.

Stepping on the heels of her sneakers, she kicked them off, and let her jacket fall to the ground in a neglected heap. Stepping out of her jeans, she collapsed on top of her bed, letting the cool, unmade sheets press against her heated face.

She might have been half asleep. She might have been having drunken delusions brought on by bed spins. Regardless, she suddenly felt a weight beside her, vaguely alerting her to another presence.

"Leon?" She mumbled, unable to open her eyes. She felt the weight shift slightly, and soon felt an arm enclose around her waist, in sort of a half-spooning position. "What? Couldn't find your car?" A hand settling on the bare skin where her shirt didn't cover her hips.

No response. Just a gentle shifting. She was comforted by the feel of a warm body behind her; very reassuring that he was here and not wandering the streets of Portland, perhaps singing bad renditions of Bon Jovi. Amazing that she hadn't heard him come in.

Before dozing, she was suddenly aware of the gentle hot breath against her neck; and she responded by snuggling against him, letting the press of her back meet the firm, unknown planes of his torso. His hand tightened on her side, shifting to the gentle slope of her belly. She felt the gentle, feathery suggestion of lips against the side of her neck, fully awakening her arousal. If this kid didn't want to complicate things, he sure as hell wasn't doing a very good job.

Fingers toyed with the elastic band of her low-rise underwear. She sighed, turning her head slightly to look at him. Instead, he gently guided her head to face the wall, refusing eye contact. His gentle, subtle kisses became more frequent; his hand shifted from her belly to lift her hair over her head, effectively giving him more access to her skin. The hand drifted back to her underwear, toying with the odd mesh feel, flicking the elastic straps in his fingers.

She responded by pressing against his fingers, shifting her hips against his pelvis, suddenly frustrated by her lack of access to him. As if sensing this, he responded by a gentle suckling of the neck, and firmly trailing his fingers over the confines of her panties.

She moaned. She couldn't help it. Her mind blanked on the last time she had been given adequate sexual attention. She reached from behind to caress his face, but was again, gently denied. Instead, his fingers snuck into the elastic waistband, pressing against the firm, moist skin underneath.

With those insistent lips nibbling her neck, and the experienced hand manipulating her arousal, it wasn't long before she climaxed. Loudly.

Heavy breathing. Her heavy breathing. She felt the lingering kiss on her neck, as if congratulating her on her speedy, thorough orgasm. The hand went back to her tummy and remained there until she fell asleep once more.

She awoke to the sound of insistent knocking. A glance at the window told her that it was late morning, or perhaps early afternoon. Though never prone to hang overs, she nevertheless felt dehydrated and tired. Like a slug, she made her way over to the relentless pounding of her door, opening it to find a mildly annoyed Leon who shifted his expression to one of mild shock.

Oh, right. She was still half naked. She could feel his eyes going over the wealth of her lean legs covered in rather minimal underwear.

"Uh, sorry." His eyes quickly looked away from her, setting his vision on the well-worn poster of "Interview with the Vampire," against the wall. Smirking, Claire quickly pulled on her jeans from last night, shaking them out from their disheveled position on the floor.

"Are you here for breakfast, or you just seeking cheap thrills?" She glanced around for her wallet, noting that the benefit of having little furniture was that very little is lost. She found it in one of the deep inside pockets of her jacket. Her hands froze, grasping the collar of the jacket as her thoughts filtered relentless conclusions. She swallowed, attempting a casual tone. "Um, so did you end up leaving early this morning, or what?"

He raised a brow, as if determining the level of her delusion. "Well, yes, as I recall, we came to the mutual consensus that having copious amounts of inebriated sex, though enjoyable, would bring about detrimental effects on our present friendship." He smirked, gesturing to the bag of Noah's bagels in hand. "And so I come bearing breakfast of the 'fuck adkins' variety. Care to partake?"

He promptly sat down on the cold, wooden planks of her floor, setting the cardboard tray of Starbucks coffee beside the rather considerable bag. He couldn't help but notice her still stunned expression.

"You…didn't crash here?" She lowered herself slowly into a seating position facing him, looking at the hefty assortment of bagels as if they had sprouted arms and legs. Sighing, Leon handed her the traditional café au lait that was her constant morning preference, helping himself to one of the asiago cheese bagels.

Her memories were vague and distant, as some alcohol-stimulated actions are, but the sensory overload had completely resonated within her. Allowing her jacket to cover her lap, she gently touched the sensitive skin of her neck, feeling the gooseflesh break out in full form along her arms. I had been practically seduced in my sleep. Could I have actually had a tequila-induced erotic dream?

Leon was regaling her with the stories shared the night prior, especially expanding on the knowledge regarding an attraction to a certain previous president. She was sort of half listening, crudely tearing a random bagel in half.

Outside of the apartment, well outside of the city limits, a young man with the cool, calculative eyes of a predator congratulated himself on a conquest well sought. The crimson in his hair danced in the sunlight as he walked to the area designated by his master.


End file.
